


A Helping Hand

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Feeding, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill. OP wanted Childermass helping Norrell when he'd hurt his hands, feeding him etc. I seem to have managed to put in most of her bonus points as well (Norrell getting irritable because he's hungry, etc)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

Norrell hated having sore hands. Everything he wanted to do, even the simplest of things like reaching for a book, or reading, or taking notes, seemed to be awkward. He snapped at Childermass when Childermass offered to help him, and Childermass slid away into the shadows to get on with something else. That wasn't what Norrell wanted, either. He just wanted not to have made the mistake he had made with an untested spell. Side-effects were the devil, especially when he'd been working on his own and had nobody else to blame for his red, sore, prickling hands. He'd like to have someone else to blame--at least he could relieve his feelings by complaining at them.

He'd like to have had something to eat. He was beginning to realise that missing meals because he was busy was completely different to sitting about all day with no books, no meals, and no cups of tea. 

But he was so irritable by this time that when Childermass came in with a plate of cut-up food for him he just hunched up unhappily in his chair and told him to go away--then spent the next hour mentally cursing both Childermass and himself because Childermass did as he was told.

At supper-time Childermass brought him chopped-up meat, and he complained because the pieces were too large and the cooking rather too tough, so Childermass started eating it in front of him with evident enjoyment. He sat there hoping his mouth wasn't watering, because it might not have been as dainty as some of his usual taste in food, but it didn't smell bad at all. Childermass cut the last bit in half--"Have a taste, sir?"--and fed him the last little piece. It wasn't at all too tough. Didn't Childermass know he liked to be persuaded if he'd been having a difficult day? He sighed, wishing he hadn't behaved the way he usually did, and he might be sitting there with his belly comfortably full of dinner, instead of feeling hungry and irritable and twitchy. 

Childermass asked him if he wanted to rest now. He agreed: he couldn't think of anything else he should be doing, and the sooner the day went away and turned into something else the better. So Childermass took him to his room and got him undressed, and he tried very hard to sleep. Not very successfully: he was tossing and turning, and his hands seemed to scrape against the linens, and he kept realising he was dreadfully hungry because he wasn't accustomed to missing meals (except when he meant to, which was something different entirely). 

Somewhere in the middle of the night he rang for Childermass and said he couldn't sleep, and please could Childermass find him a...a bit of cheese or something (he wasn't entirely sure what sort of food it made sense to suggest at a ridiculous hour of the morning).

Childermass nodded and silently wandered away, returning with a plate of bread, a jar of jam, and a cup of something hot. "Cheese'd give you bad dreams, sir," he said, and applied himself to cutting up the bread and putting jam on it. 

Norrell did his best to sit up without using his hands, rather clumsily, and then Childermass got him slightly more upright in the bed, and pulled him close where he was conveniently in range. Norrell squeaked a little, because he hadn't been used at all to being so close he could feel another person's warmth so near his skin, but it didn't feel bad. It felt even nicer to have Childermass coax his mouth open and pop in a little piece of bread-and-jam, easy to eat and sweet enough to be very comforting. He nibbled delicately through the whole plateful, and every so often Childermass lifted the cup of tea for him to sip. Once he'd finished the bread, he complained about Childermass not having brought enough--mainly because he liked to have something to complain about, but also because he wouldn't have minded a bit more of the jam. When Childermass offered to go and look for more bread, Norrell said he wouldn't like to be disturbed, but a little more jam would be acceptable. 

Perhaps he ought to have been shocked when Childermass promptly laid him back on the pillows and started feeding him jam on his fingers, but he was feeling happy and slightly floaty and nearly-full-enough, so he just lay there and licked and sucked what he was given until he was too tired to do anything but sleep.

The next day, he didn't make any objections to Childermass looking after him. It would be silly; it was perfectly practical not to get all upset in his nerves and ignore mealtimes, because that didn't do anybody any good (and apparently made him hungry enough to give in at dead of night anyway). So Childermass dressed him in his comfortable clothes, which made him happy because evidently he didn't have to do anything annoying like pay social calls, and brought in a big tray of hot rolls, cheese, toast and plum cake, with a jug of chocolate. 

"I cannot conceive why you think I might need such a ridiculous amount of food," he said to Childermass, partly because he didn't want to set a precedent by the night before, when he'd been so particularly hungry. 

"No, sir," said Childermass. "Thought I might as well bring enough for both of us." He tore a piece off one of the hot rolls, and--as Norrell drew a breath to tell him it was too large--simply buttered it and bit it in half, eating his half with evident enjoyment. "It's very good, sir. Will you eat a little?" He held the other half for Norrell to eat, and they finished two hot rolls like that, rather faster than Norrell would have expected, and had a little toast and cheese as well. 

Childermass had got a large cup from the kitchen, and they shared that, too. Childermass seemed to regard chocolate as a bit of a treat, and Norrell thought that maybe there wasn't a lot of it about in servants' quarters, and let him have most of the chocolate because he liked the way it made Childermass smile. 

Norrell tried a corner of the fruit-cake without notable enthusiasm. 

"Not to your taste?" said Childermass. 

"Too dry, and far too dense to suit," said Norrell. "The rest of it was acceptable." He was surprised to find that he was more interested in expressing his taste than in complaining--for after all, so far, Childermass appeared to be doing an excellent job of providing food that he actually liked, and making the experience less painful than it might have been.

After breakfast, they settled down to deal with Mr Norrell's correspondence. He'd rather have spent his time in proper scholarship and spell-casting, but there was no sense repining over that for now. Childermass's intelligence would have been perfectly adequate to helping him work in any other field of endeavour, but given that reading out spells for him to work on might have the most drastic and uncontrolled effects, he had better leave his proper work until he got better. Instead, he dictated grudging and unwelcoming replies to letters, and Childermass made them marginally less graceless where necessary. If he had been another sort of man, Mr Norrell might have reflected on the irony that such an un-diplomatic type as Childermass might be better at politeness than he himself was, but it rarely occurred to him to question that his servant was very useful in so many areas of life. 

About halfway through the afternoon, when Childermass had gone out to post his letters and look for a couple of books, Norrell (generally ill-accustomed to viewing things in a practical and worldly fashion) suddenly realised that there might possibly have been another construction to be put upon that episode of hand-feeding than what he'd been aware of at the time. It was horribly embarrassing: the only bright spot was that he'd only embarrassed himself, because Childermass was treating him perfectly normally, so _he_ obviously hadn't noticed. What was even more annoying was that once he himself had noticed, he couldn't _un_ -notice it, and was finding the idea appealing. He was used to thinking of his own desires as less than exigent, but he was also used to being able to relieve them when occasionally necessary, with the use of his hand. Which would have to wait until he got the use of his hand _back_ , so to speak. 

Maybe he could get himself comfortable before that. He hoped it was worth a try, in the interests of not appearing in a visibly-aroused state over dinner and maybe startling his man of business into leaving. He'd often wondered, idly, what it would take to make Childermass leave, and, less idly, how he might best ensure he stayed. He certainly didn't want Childermass to leave now, when he felt vulnerable. He doubted any of the other servants would be half as good at managing either him or what needed doing--sometimes the other servants seemed to have no sense whatsoever!

So he went back to his bedroom, and tried to find how he might achieve relief without having to use his poor sore hands. The difficulty was that while other men might (and for all he knew did) try slightly different methods from time to time, he'd only ever used his hand. Trying to effect a result by simply rolling his hips, scrunching his eyes up and hoping for enough pressure from the mattress didn't seem to be working. He kept restlessly varying the angle of attack, holding his breath and nearly getting a cramp in his toes, but it proved useless, especially because every so often his hand would brush against something and hurt. By the time Childermass came in with their dinner, he was almost relieved to be interrupted, as well as completely mortified and infuriated and determined not to admit what he'd been (trying to be) up to. He muttered something about trying to scratch an itch.

"I can see that, sir," said Childermass.

The embarrassment of being interrupted had at least ameliorated the original problem, and at least Childermass had therefore not found out that his employer had been responding rather inappropriately to hand-feeding. 

Dinner started with soup, which had the virtue of making them concentrate in the interest of not ending up wearing it. The main course was a roast, which smelled lovely, and which Childermass was preparing for them both by cutting it neatly. It proved to be just as delicious as it smelt, and they scuffle-fought for the last few pieces, Norrell getting creative with his elbows since he was getting more used to not using his hands. 

The last course was chopped fresh fruit, and it was soft and juicy. A bit of banana first, then a few raspberries, and a piece of an almost-indecently-juicy peach that had him half-closing his eyes in pleasure as he licked the sweet sticky juice from Childermass's fingers. He sighed as he fell back on the pillows. 

"Let's see about getting that itch scratched for you, sir," said Childermass, and undid his breeches before slipping a hand in. Norrell groaned helplessly as he got fingers round his prick for the first time in weeks--where he wanted them--just right, _ah!_ \--and he'd never spent so hard in his entire existence. Oh, he'd needed it so dreadfully, and it felt so good, and...

Childermass said something, which he was entirely unable to process in the heat of the moment, and he remembered, yes, he wasn't alone with his own afterglow, and it would probably be a good idea to do something, but he felt exquisitely wrecked and was still gasping for breath. "Give me...a minute," he said, accordingly, "I'll see what I can manage."

It took him more like five or ten minutes to even get his breath back, and then Childermass undressed them both properly, and Norrell cuddled up and demanded to be told how to use his tongue on Childermass. 

Childermass seemed a little shocked. "You don't need to start with anything difficult," he suggested. 

"I am _not_ leaving you unsatisfied," snapped Norrell. "I can't be dealing with you wandering off swiving your way through the streets and stews of London when I need you here, it would be most inconvenient!" In fact, to be quite honest about it, he didn't really want Childermass to leave the bed, let alone the house, at the moment. In fact, to be even more honest about it, all that suggestive finger-licking had given him ideas, and although he couldn't get it up for another go yet, he'd found the thought appealing. 

Childermass looked at him. "All right, let's give it a try," he said. "But you must do as you're told, sir, and no thinking you know best when it's your first try."

Norrell squirmed a little at the thought of Childermass telling him to do as he was told. 

"First rule is, don't run at it like a bull at a gate and choke yourself, sir. Because neither of us will like that. Remember eating from my hand, that got both of us going. And I'll hold you where you can reach me." Childermass pushed the blankets down, and at least Norrell didn't have to worry about whether Childermass was interested, because he rather visibly was. 

So Norrell let Childermass ease him down the bed, and hold him where he could reach, and Childermass started to murmur sweet filthy nonsense about how lovely he was (really, were Childermass's eyes betraying him, because Norrell had no illusions about being personally prepossessing?) and how eager Childermass had felt with Norrell sucking at his fingers, it had gone straight to his cock. Norrell moaned a little, and began to use his tongue. Up and down, licking thoroughly, wishing he could use his hands just to help. Childermass was begging him now, and he still had no idea whether he would achieve a basic proficiency, partly because Childermass was rather large and his own mouth perhaps too small. So he reminded Childermass that everyone had to start somewhere, and no doubt he was going to be relatively poor at learning this, but Childermass was going to have to hold him there and fuck his mouth and please, only stop if he had to. The thought of being vigorously and mercilessly...used was beginning to affect him, and when Childermass pushed him into place and coaxed his mouth open with his fingers, he did what was wanted, struggling to keep his teeth out of the way and keep moving. He could really only stretch his jaws over the cock-head itself, because it was so big, and did his best to flutter his tongue and moan. Childermass gasped, "Please!" and Norrell felt the powerlessness--and the power--of being able to do nothing but make somebody come.

He swallowed all he could, and then Childermass eased him up the bed, and he panted and collapsed, and then Childermass looked at him and said, "I think you _liked_ that!" as if it surprised him, and Norrell said of course he had. Now he could breathe again the excitement of it was coming back to him, the image of being used, mouth stuffed full of cock, being moved for somebody else's pleasure. He lay back on the pillow and thought about it, spreading his thighs impatiently to show Childermass where he was needed. 

"Got another itch, have you, sir?" said Childermass, and Norrell d--ned his eyes, d--ned his impudence, and d--ned his improper manners, which since Norrell wasn't the sort of gentleman to be particularly ripe in his language normally, had more to say about him being desperate (again) than anything else. Childermass evidently took the point: he stopped teasing and wrapped his hand round Norrell's prick quite firmly. Norrell whined, and wriggled to hump against the hand, only a couple of thrusts would do it, and he was coming again, slower and greedier this time, feeling the warmth of the pleasure flooding through his whole body. 

"Better?" said Childermass. 

"Mm," said Norrell, feeling terribly disinclined to do any thing but sleep. 

He slept through Childermass cleaning them up, going to sleep, and getting up to see about breakfast, because the first thing he noticed was the smell of breakfast. His nose twitched.

Once they'd nibbled their way through some hot rolls, then toast and bacon, Childermass got some tea. Norrell demanded some to sip, because the bacon left him thirsty, and then complained about its being indigestible and unpleasant, and too hot. 

"Which is why I've got your own tea over there, sir," said Childermass patiently. "It's weak and cooling down while I drink mine."

So Norrell settled down and waited, and when Childermass had drunk his own tea, he held up Mr Norrell's tea for him to sip, and it was precisely the right temperature and just as he liked it. 

Then Childermass got him a bath, and washed him all over in nice warm water, and let him lie back and soak in it for a bit. His hands must be getting better; they didn't hurt at all in the water. He kept dozing off, and ended up asking Childermass to hold him up. 

He sighed complainingly when Childermass got him out and dried him off, and he realised his hands were still too sensitive when they brushed against something, even a soft towel. 

Childermass fetched some salve for his hands. Apparently the maids used it when they were in pain after...polishing something or whatever they did. He took a breath to complain that he was sure gentlemen's hands were quite different, but thought better of it when Childermass pulled him up close and started very delicately smoothing the salve into his hands. It nearly didn't hurt, and it was rather enjoyable having very personal attention paid to him, and he was developing quite a taste for feeling the warmth of Childermass's body near to him. Childermass apparently didn't seem to mind his, because when he'd finished the task he held him close for a while. Mr Norrell decided there was nothing to be gained from too much impatience. It would certainly be very useful to be back to normal and able to work with his books, but maybe he deserved a rest from time to time, and he would never have discovered it if it hadn't been forced on him. 

So time went on. Bathing and salve and correspondence in the days. At dinner-times he would have a prompt and regular meal served by Childermass, who appeared to have the gift of coaxing his appetite by sharing food. He seemed to be getting a lot less indigestion than he had when he'd had bad habits of missing meals when he was distracted, or getting so fractious that he took against what was given him, and all it took was Childermass showing him how delicious the food was by eating some, and hand-feeding him the rest of it. What a delightful way to manage his tricky appetite--and what a pity he'd have to stop soon, when he got better. Especially since both of them usually enjoyed the hand-feeding enough to want some attention. Norrell had felt self-conscious at first about demanding things that surely no gentleman would, but it didn't take him long to figure out that Childermass seemed to like him being bluntly, lewdly specific about exactly what he wanted. He wished it wasn't just a matter of giving him a hand while necessary. He was going to miss it when things went back to normal. 

Perhaps thanks to the salve, perhaps thanks to giving his hands a rest sensibly rather than pushing on, after a week and a half he felt quite better. He didn't say a word about it to Childermass, but tried to get on with his work stealthily during the days while trying to give the impression to Childermass he was no better. 

It only took two days before Childermass came in with dinner and found Mr Norrell _in flagrante delicto_ with a book. Norrell trembled like a guilty thing surprised, but Childermass just sat down with dinner and shared the food by hand, just the same. 

Norrell complained, after dinner. "It's not the same if you know. I feel such a fool for trying to trick you, and what's the point of feeding me when I can feed myself?"

"The point is, I can give you any attention you want," said Childermass. "I like doing it, sir."

Norrell looked at him mistrustfully. 

"In terms of food, maybe not all the time," said Childermass. "It's not an efficient way of having your dinner if you want to save time, though it's nice if we've _got_ the time. As far as the other thing goes, I can be at your service most times you ask."

"Most?" said Norrell. 

"Unless I'm ill, or busy with another thing you asked me to do."

That, Norrell considered, was far more than he'd considered at all likely in the long term. In fact, it was news to him that there might _be_ a long term.

He said, "Put this book away, then, and let's go to bed," interested to note that he must trust Childermass, at least somewhat. He couldn't imagine preparing for bed with anyone else and not feeling the urge to get up and check the book had been put away correctly.

It was strange, starting to undo his own clothes, and Childermass only helping with the odd recalcitrant button instead of doing everything for him. 

He felt a lot more naked, somehow, without the assumption that Childermass was merely helping him. Because he was well, and he still wanted Childermass to come to bed with him and satisfy him rather thoroughly, and maybe cuddle up and go to sleep. 

Childermass was eating him all up with his eyes, which was embarrassing and exciting at the same time. He kept wondering if he should look behind him for a better-looking person that Childermass should clearly be looking at, even as he turned when Childermass asked so he could see all of him. 

"You know, sir," said Childermass, "I spent years determined not to kiss the arses of my so-called superiors. At the moment I'm thinking I wouldn't mind at all."

Norrell presented himself on his front, spread over the edge of the bed, demanding that Childermass should kiss his hole, very gently, pressing his lips there and slipping his tongue-tip right round the edge, and just keep doing that while playing with his cock... He'd forgotten how Childermass liked him to be blunt about what he liked, and he hadn't quite realised how depraved--and exquisite--and altogether abandoned he would feel, with his prick rubbed and his arsehole softly licked. That tongue was only giving him the slightest, tiniest of licks, but it was wonderful, and the hand in front was just short of perfect. He was feeling as if he could hold there, just on the edge of coming, for _hours_... He moaned, complainingly, because he knew he couldn't. 

Childermass murmured something wordlessly inquiring where his mouth was pressed. 

"Do it hard!" Norrell gasped, because however delicious it felt he'd _faint_ if he couldn't come--and he thrust forward as Childermass squeezed, a flood of pleasure streaming from his cock as he groaned with utter relief. 

"All right?" said Childermass, when they'd both come back to themselves a bit. 

"Mm," said Norrell, and asked him what he wanted for his turn. Apparently that little act of depravity had left Childermass both excited and exhausted, for all he wanted was to lie there with his eyes closed while Norrell stroked his cock and described how good it had felt to have his arse licked and cock fondled. Only a little work had the desired effect--luckily, since he was not sure how his newly-recovered hand would stand up to much use--and they were both ready for sleep. 

Norrell nestled up. 

"I'm glad you're better, sir."

"You can keep the 'sir' for when we're being polite," said Norrell. "You don't need to call me 'sir' when you've just had your mouth on my arse."

"I'm glad you're better...Gilbert."

Norrell twitched a little. He'd never liked the name, but he didn't want the distance of 'sir' right now. He slipped his hand into Childermass's, and went to sleep.


End file.
